


Drowning In Love

by makotako



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2013-11-14
Packaged: 2018-01-01 11:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makotako/pseuds/makotako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is how she loses Chuck Hansen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning In Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written due to an overabundance of feelings thanks to one of my wonderful friends, isladelmar.

            “I love you,” she says quietly, secretly, like a confession.

            “I’m sorry,” he returns in a voice thick with tears.

            His back to the wall, hers pressed into the cool metal railing of her bunk, they tangle together and cry. His breath is ragged, an unbroken awful sound, but his face is dry; her shoulders shake with short gasps and tears carve trails down her cheeks.

            In the morning, he is gone.

                                                            This is how she loses Chuck Hansen. 

                         ** _i._**

            They meet for the first time or rather, they are introduced.

            He does not speak, simply stares and scowls and focuses wholly on maintaining the bitterness that runs in his veins and hardens his heart. When he is told to say hello, he crosses his arm and makes a show of turning away. He does not want to know this new girl. He does not want to be here. He doesn’t want anything. (He always loses what he wants, what he _loves_.)

            She stands behind the imposing figure that is now her father, small, frail hands clutching at the heavy material of his military coat. Shoulders back, chest forward, she holds the same rigid bearing, but her eyes—they cloud, dark and unsure, as they try desperately to meet those of her new acquaintance. It doesn’t take her long to realise he’s ignoring her, so she simply folds herself more tightly away, ducking her head against the nice new wool of her jacket.

            When she is herded away by a firm, reliable hand, she peeks out from beneath blunt bangs.

            A last offer of friendship to the boy.

            He does not look back.

                         ** _ii._**

            It’s breakfast time and the Marshall chides her gently, pushes her plate of eggs and bacon and toast towards her. She shakes her head, shies away from the overbearing stench of fat and grease, and folds her hands in her lap. She does not look up, because she does not want to see the look of disappointment she knows will be there.

             **“** Maybe she wants a biscuit, eh? **”**  It’s not the voice she’s expecting. It’s lilting and gruff and not quite as measured; more than that, it’s drawling, accented differently.

            Immediately, her head snaps up.

            Hercules Hansen and his son take a seat across the table, their plates piled high. She notes that they’ve taken a different assortment of food.

            Waffles, she thinks. They’ve got little impressions on the surface. That’s where the syrup goes. 

            Tearing her gaze from their food, she nods at the Ranger in greeting, chin bowing in the way she’s always been taught. And even though she does not speak, from her peripheries, she notes the Marshall’s flicker of a smile, his own little sign of approval.

             **“** Want one of these instead, sweetheart? **”** The older man is grinning and there are lines at his eyes that make the blues of his irises just a little brighter, weathers his face just a little more. But it is nice, the smile.

            It makes Mako smile, too.

             **“** Cookie, **”**  she says and her voice is unsure, stumbling over the sharp turn of syllables that she’s not quite used to.

             **“** Biscuit, cookie—same thing, ain’t it? **”**

            She supposes they are.

            Across the table, the Ranger’s young son scoffs and sneers and shoves another spoonful of Cocoa Puffs into his mouth.

            She bites into the gooey chocolate mess of the freshly baked good and smiles, small and shy. It’s delicious and while the sweetness aches her back tooth, she much prefers it to the rations before her.

            Perhaps it is childish, but she is young and still learning.

            The cookie is raised to her mouth once more—

             **“** Ow! **”**

            —And drops, lands on the concrete floor beneath her feet. Her shin throbs and she can feel her eyes well with tears.

            Chuck Hansen smirks into his food.

            Mako Mori launches herself across the table.

            They collide and fall and it’s a mess. They’re thrashing limbs, shrieked Japanese, and howled Australian slurs. Her tiny fist collides with his jaw and his elbow knocks into her shoulder; he kicks beneath her and she digs her knees into his ribs.

            They are two children with broken hearts but fierce spirits.

                         ** _iii._**

            Kodiak Island.

            Her home for the next twenty-four weeks.

            Mako is almost sure she would hate it if not for her companion, who walks at her side, arm slung easily around her shoulders like she belongs there and the way her hand bumps against his hip isn’t the most annoying thing in the world.

             **“** We’re gonna be the most kickass pilots the PPDC’s ever known, Mori. **”**  The drawl comes arrogant, assured in her ear as he pulls her closer, out of the way of a handful of other recruits that stride past them without a thought. To the other students, they are simply two new recruits of old Rangers, kids who have no idea what they’re getting themselves into.

            But to Mako Mori, Chuck Hansen is her world.

            To Chuck Hansen, Mako Mori is his heart.

            Together, they are all each other needs to combat the frost that digs into their skin like knives, the isolation that would surely make any other go mad.

            Sydney’s Son and Tokyo’s Daughter—up against the world.

                         ** _iv._**

            Recruits are gathered in the Kwoon, shoulder to shoulder as they watch the first round in combat training. The Academy is silent, almost every student present for the fights.

            After all, this is their entertainment.

             **“** C’mon, Mako, you got this! Kick his ass! **”**  Above the din comes Chuck’s voice, loud and boisterous. He’s edging forward, as close to the mats as possible without receiving a reprimand from one of the Fightmasters.

            Two cadets stand facing one another. One is Mako, the other a young man by the name of Soren. He’s large, broad across the chest and narrow in the waist; he is leanly muscled, the strength of him evident in the sinews of his arms and the confidence of his stance. Standing there, Mako appears small, almost fragile with her tapered shoulders and short stature.

            When the two come together, there’s a collective inhale.

            Mako ducks beneath the wide swing of his arm, coils tightly against herself, and launches her left shoulder into his chest. Her fist makes solid contact and she can feel him lurch above her, knocked back and down. He is a brawler, someone with sheer power but lacking in discipline; she is a fine sword, fluid and forged by the hand of control. He has underestimated her and she has brought him to his knees.

            Each time he rises, the anger and frustration growing in the darks of his eyes, she reminds him of his hubris.

            The last and final time he lands upon his back, his leg is caught in the hook of her elbow and twisted at an angle she knows could break bone but doesn’t.

             **“** 4-1. **”**

            She bows, as does he.

            He stalks off and the crowd thins.

            The only one who remains is Chuck, waiting for her as he always does. He’s grinning broadly, proudly, and he envelops her in a hug she wishes she could keep in the lining of her coat. He presses a swift kiss to her forehead, tastes the salt of sweat on her porcelain skin, and sighs almost gleefully.

            “I knew you could do it.”

                         ** _v._**

            It’s the day they’d been waiting for.

            It’s not the outcome they’d hoped for.

             **“** What the fuck happened in there?! **”** It explodes out of him, his anger and his sorrow and his betrayal. He’s screaming, shouting at the top of his lungs. He’s shaking, too, can feel the tremor running the length of his spine.

            All he sees is red.

            She’s seated at the foot of her bed, hands fisted in her lap. Knuckles grow white with tension and her shoulders quiver with the same rage she knows boils the blood in his veins.

            Unlike him, she does not yell.

            She simply stares at her hands, digs nails into the fleshy palms until she can feel nothing but the sharp, piercing pain focused there.

             **“** What, are you not going to say anything? **”**  His words cut like knives but she remains silent, doesn’t even glance up when he advances on her. “Real good, Mori. Can’t even fucking say anything! That’s a goddamn first!” Chuck knows he’s being awful, can feel the shame clawing at the broken, beaten thing in his chest, but he can’t stop. He’s livid.

            All he’d ever wanted was her at his side.

            To have her always would have been a dream come true.

            Now, he’s left with this nightmare.

             **“** Do you not want to be my co-pilot? Is there something you’re not saying? **”**  A part of him wants to shake her, force her to speak, but he knows her—knows that it’s impossible to make Mako Mori do anything. So he keeps bellowing at her, like it’s somehow her fault that the test hadn’t gone exactly as they’d hoped.

            It was always easier to blame someone else, wasn’t it?

             **“** I mean, fuck! If you don’t want me, just fucking tell me, yeah? Don’t waste my goddamn time. You know I’ve wanted this forever and you just had to— **”**

             **“** Get out. **”**

            He almost keels over as the words hit him in the gut like a sucker punch.

             **“** What’d you say to me? **”**  He means to snap at her but his words fall short when their eyes meet.

            There are tears in hers, shameful, sad ones that do not spill but instead make her gaze appear glassy. Mouth trembling, features contorting like she’s trying desperately not to cry, she appears smaller than ever.

            A fragile doll.

            Except when she rises, pushes him back, he stumbles like he’s the one who is in terrible trouble of getting broken.

            The fight has left him.

            He allows her to force him out of her room, only speaking as he passes over the threshold.

             **“** Mak— **”**

            The door slams.

                         ** _vi._**

            When she finds him waiting in front of her room the next night, she says nothing because there are no words that could match the sadness in his expression or the guilt in his extended hand.

             _Please don’t leave me_ , his eyes say.

             _I won’t._

            And she realises, staring down into the face of the boy she loves with every last tired bone in her body, that she never will.

            So they climb into her bed and they say nothing. Their foreheads touch and their noses bump and his breath is hers and his hand is her hand and the fit together, somehow, within the small bunk.


End file.
